Friday, 12 February 2016

All Is Never Lost

Months passed and the memories came hurrying towards her, ready to haunt her.

"Memories don't haunt. And you won't regret this one memory." He uttered. She knew it won't haunt, that she won't regret it, but she indeed was a skeptical; struggling all the doubts in her mind.
Months had passed and his silhouette with a bag on his shoulder and a tired smile on his lips, came running towards her. That black shirt, that brown trousers and that silhouette, reflecting the textures of his clothes.
She missed him. She started missing him like the winter sky missing the warmth of the sun.
But all was lost.
Him and those racing heartbeats, that intense passion, that 'immortal' connection.
BUT ALL GOT LOST.
Those fragile emotions, unbreakable feelings and instilled passion.

"Don't think. Relax." He whispered.
How could she not think? She was bound to do that. Forcing the memories into her occluded brain. How well she remembered each touch, each move and that undesired resistance.
BUT ALL WAS LOST.
The capacity to feel it all again. It was lost. She felt like a loser, surrendering herself to her blunt passions, trying to sharpen them up.
All that differed was that the memory was not as fixed as the previous one. Not as clear as before. It could never be.
Hours passed and partial amnesia surfaced her. All she could remember was the dull room, orange light, a white cupboard and the whispers.

"I want to feel the love. I want to fall in it. I want to fly in between. I want to take off again. I want to feel the love. How it is to be loved. How it is to love. I know not what love is. Crucify me with the arrows." Her heart whispered.

But something was left. Something only she knew. Something she won't show.
All is never lost.

About Me

Sometimes, we feel like expressing ourselves but we fail, we run out of words. All then exists are the wordless thoughts ready to come out of the caged brain.

I am a Literature student at University of Delhi. A sensitive selenophile who believes that writing is a process of catharsis. As F. Scott Fitzgerald said "...catharsis, would enable me to better meet the new day".